Penumbra
by gracesane
Summary: Hermione had always been voracious for knowledge. But when her thirst for education uncovered history's dark secrets, and led her to the cunning nightmare called Tom Riddle, she learned that sometimes, knowledge could be a killer in disguise.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer_: Harry Potter is J.K. Rowling's, not mine. The morsel of history this titbit of the story is based on doesn't belong to me either. Though...I suppose all wild assumptions/accusations are mine (and therefore not factual in real life or in the Harry Potter world).

_AN: Oh, goodness. Here's my attempt at writing a compelling yet abstract prologue. If you bear with me through this prologue, I promise you'll get to read a good story eventually. And who knows, maybe reading this prologue will make you a more educated person. It's good history, if you're into that kind of thing._

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_When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace._

_~Jimi Hendrix_

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Prologue

41BC

Beads of sweat rolled down her tan face as she rolled over and groaned into her pillow. Her dark hair fanned around her. Sleep had escaped her again. It was a quotidian of her life since she was a girl, since her sister betrayed them all.

They all tried so hard to protect her. Her brothers, her mentors, the generals. They all told her that her innocence was her most redeeming quality, that she was a symbol of hope for her nation. That now that her sister was gone, her brothers fighting, she would sit upon the venerated throne. Once the war was won. And now her brothers were both dead trying to protect their nation and her.

She looked beside her, to the bundle of blankets. Her secret lay sound asleep beside her in a mass of white, and she smiled. At least someone was sleeping tonight.

She attempted to drown in sleep once more, but terrible images plagued her mind.

--

_She watched as the Roman emperor came to the palace accompanied with multiple soldiers. Four thousand to be exact. _

_He came dressed in pomp, his men in a line like a parade, yet he was old. His grey hair was becoming sparse upon his pale head. _

_Her mentor frowned at her, placed a hand upon her shoulder and pulled her away from the window. It was time for lessons._

_--_

_She noticed her sister walk out of the emperor's chamber. She was surprised that her sister was back in the palace. But she dismissed the thought, using the Roman arrival as an explanation for her sister's return from Syria. _

_Her sister came closer, staring at her with that vindictive gaze. She had stared so maliciously at her, but with a tinge of pity that surprised her. She stepped back, wanting to disappear into the shadows, but instead, bumped into a young Roman soldier who had come to wait on his emperor. She uttered a quick apology and ran down the palace halls in search of Ganymede._

_He would know what to do. He always knew what to do._

_--_

_She ran from the scene of fighting, being pushed along by her mentor. His fatherly words of encouragement forced her to keep running, but it didn't keep the tears from falling from her eyes._

_They were tears at the pain in her feet, the blood gushing from her soles as rocks slashed across them._

_They were tears of seeing the betrayal her sister had ignited. Her brother's advisors were right all along. She was the source of evil befalling the land. The disease and famish were omens of what was to come. _

_Unfortunately, no one had paid attention. But now, she would pay attention. She would watch as war waged around her. She just had to reach the Lighthouse first. She would be safe there._

_--_

_She looked upon her people, bowing to her, the new queen._

_Her mentor stood on one side of her, her general on the other. They both stared at her each with a smugly with the thought that they were the better of the two._

_She stood straight, as tall as an eleven year old could, and ignored the heated glares they sent each other. She focused on her people, smiled, told them everything would be alright. They had believed in her. Believing had gotten them nowhere._

_--_

_She was horrified. _

_Ganymede and Achillas were duelling. Ganymede was much older than Achillas, and Achillas was a trained general She didn't have to be a genius to guess who had the upper hand._

_She shrunk away from the fighting. She flinched every time she heard swords clashing. Ganymede was too noble to kill Achillas with his powers, and his nobility would get him killed. _

_She sobbed at the scene. It was too much for her to handle. Her world was slowly falling apart._

_One of the men to her right, watching the scene, muttered "The Queen should kill Achillas. He thinks too highly of himself." _

_She looked at the man and back to the fighting. Ganymede's grey beard swished around in battle and she almost laughed, choking on her sobs. That man was as good as her father. If Ganymede survived this, she would order that Achillas be killed. If Ganymede didn't survive, _she_ would personally kill that fool and throw his body to the Romans._

_A loud crashing sound rang throughout the chamber as a sword flew and hit the wall. Achillas was kneeling on the floor in front of Ganymede, whose sword was pointed at Achillas' heart. Ganymede glanced at her terrified state, looked back at his enemy, and walked briskly out of the chamber after one more disparaging look at Achillas._

_That night she ordered Achillas execution and made Ganymede the head of the army._

_--_

_She remembered the day she left._

_She had thought nothing of the extra time the army officers were spending inside that day. They usually trained with the army, but they were probably just exhausted. War _was_ exhausting. She herself was drained, and she wasn't fighting. She could imagine the conditions the soldiers had to fight in, the sticky blood drying on their fingers._

_She made a mental note to give all the soldiers something nice once the war was over. A reward of some sorts._

_She was walking down the hall to her chamber when the sound of footsteps caused her to stop. The halls were dimly lit as a precaution if the Romans ever infiltrated the lighthouse. The footsteps stopped as she had, and for a moment she thought they were an echo._

_She took three steps forward, each one sharply distinctive. She stopped and listened closely._

_One. Two. Three. Four._

_Someone was following her down the hall. That was _never_ a good sign._

_Panic inundated her. Had the Romans found a way inside the lighthouse? After a year of fighting, were the sands in her hourglass finally done falling?_

_She nearly jumped a foot in the air when a calloused hand captured her shoulder firmly. She turned slowly in fear that she would be killed the moment she saw her captor's face. It was only an army official._

_She let out a breath she didn't even know she was holding. "It's just you."_

"_Sorry for the disturbance," the official grinned at her. It was toothy, a little too overexcited. "There's a surprise for you. Someone you haven't seen in a while." She didn't have to think to know who._

"_He's here?" She couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice. Her second brother stopped by every so often but her oldest brother was missing for months._

"_Yes." He was still grinning. "I can take you to him."_

"_Oh, yes!" she had exclaimed. She took the bait, not realizing it was a trap._

_He led her through the lighthouse. The earlier bustling inside had disappeared along with all the officers. The hallways were dark, torches barely lighting the way. But she knew the lighthouse like the back of her hand. Which was why she was surprised when he brought her to the back exit._

_She looked up at him, with wide eyes. "Where are we going? This door leads outside." She wasn't allowed to go outside. Ganymede had ordered her to stay in the heart of the lighthouse, away from the danger of the outside world. She hadn't seen daylight in a year._

_She didn't get a reply. The man she had foolishly followed grabbed her tiny wrists with one large hand, and threw her over his shoulder. She fought. She kicked and screamed but he muffled her screams by pressing her face into an old shirt. And suddenly, they were outside. The breeze felt good against her chafed skin. They were moving at lightning quick speed and she couldn't bear to keep her eyes open as she was taken who knows where. As hard as she tried not to cry, tears ran down her cheeks in a steady flow._

_After what felt like an eternity, her captor finally lowered her to the ground. Her hair was a mess, her clothes ruffled, and she was standing in front of the bane of her existence. The Roman Emperor. Standing beside him, shaking hands, _smiling_ like they were best friends was her oldest brother. That _traitor_. All her army officials, excluding Ganymede, were standing in front of her, looking unabashed ._

_She sniffed and wiped the tears on her cheeks, all with her shoulders rolled back. She was _queen_. She had to show she wasn't a baby. The man behind her pushed her forward to her brother and the Emperor. She refused to look either of them in the eyes. She was better than them._

_The officer who had kidnapped her spoke with that toothy grin. "Here she is. We fulfilled our side of the deal. You just have to hold up your end of the bargain." He was blatantly gesturing to her brother._

_Something in her mind clicked into place. It was a ploy. Her brother had been captured while fighting. He was king, and the country could not go on without their king. They were going to trade _her_ for her brother and feign peace. She was like a pawn, easy to sacrifice._

_The Emperor walked closer to her, along with her brother. The Emperor, his greying hair still on his head, smiled at her like a hunter catching his prey_

"_Ready?" _

_He was leaving it up to her. Her brother looked at her with pleading eyes. Her soldiers looked on anxiously. They were all expecting her to say no._

_She graced the Emperor with the prettiest smile she could muster. "Of course."_

_If her country depended on it, she would sacrifice herself, but she was royalty. She would leave dignified._

_A young Roman soldier with a familiar face gently grabbed her, an apologetic smile on his face, and led her away from her homeland._

_--_

"_You shouldn't have sacrificed yourself." His hot breath fanned across her cheek as he helped her up from her chamber. Chamber. She could have laughed. It was a prison. She was dirty and downtrodden._

"_Why not?" She looked up at the pearl white face, the dark hair, the dark eyes that held her up. He was captivating to say the least. He was that same young soldier she had bumped into when she was a little girl. The soldier that gently took her away from her land. But now she wasn't a little girl. She was thirteen physically, and mentally older than the Earth itself. The young soldier wasn't so young either. He was seventeen, practically a full-grown man._

"_It was a trap," he murmured, as he brushed her hair from her face as he so often did when he visited with her food. "Your sister knew that your brother would keep fighting. She didn't tell the Emperor, but she knew."_

_She frowned. Looking back, she could see that possibility, but at the age of eleven, she was foolish to not realize it._

"_She didn't think your brother would be a threat." She closed her eyes, letting his soothing voice calm her sudden panic. He wasn't a threat. He had lost the war. He had drowned in the Great River while trying to escape. Oh, yes. That river was great enough to kill a king. "You, on the other hand, seem to be her obsession."_

"_Her obsession," she repeated. The words haunted her as her soldier helped her into the infernal wooden cage. Her sister didn't seem to gain any of the compassion that came with motherhood. She was rolled out into the searing summer sun._

_The Emperor's triumph was a parade throughout the whole of the Empire. Her country had fallen, and she as a war prisoner was shown off like an animal. The Roman people watched her with curious, horrified eyes._

"_She's just a girl," they whispered. "She's younger than my own daughter!" Outraged cries filled the streets. "They're going to strangle _her_?" She looked up at the Emperor, who himself was worried upon hearing the protests from his people._

_Hours later, she smiled sweetly at her sister who was watching her with poisonous eyes. She smiled sweetly at the Emperor, who had given in to the public's demands._

_She was on her way to Ephesus, to her new sanctuary. The Temple of Artemis._

_--_

Her eyes shot open, but that did not stop the images from replaying in her mind. She shivered despite the summer heat. Sleep was a futile attempt that night.

Her baby was still sound asleep. Her little breaths matching her little fists, her little locks of black hair. She took after her father, who had yet to see her. But the fair skin was a dead giveaway.

She took her gold and ruby necklace off her own neck and hid it among the little babe's blankets, kissing her cheek softly. "I'll be right back," she cooed, although she knew her baby was sound asleep and couldn't hear her.

She swung her legs over her bed and stood up. Old texts surrounded her room. The musky scent of the scrolls from centuries past had grown on her over her stay of four years. The scent was comforting. It was the scent of her new home.

The halls of the Temple were not quite as musky. They were noticeably fresh because they weren't inside. The halls were cold marble against her bare feet as she walked outside. The fresh air would help clear her mind. The mild winds rustled her white nightdress and made her long dark hair swing across her back.

She looked up at the black night. The darkness was pierced with the little flames of thousands of stars and the light of the full moon.

She heard noise ahead of her. She thought it might be the priest Megabyzus who enjoyed taking midnight strolls when he couldn't sleep. He always offered her his wise words of advice when she was having trouble sleeping. He still called her _Queen_.

She crept forward, not wanting to surprise him in his old age. She peered through the pillars of the temple to its stairs, but they were abandoned. She frowned. She could have sworn someone was there. She stepped out of her hiding place and walked towards the stairs of the temple.

Hot hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. Her scream was silenced with a burning kiss, as rough hands she knew well held her face. She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled into the kiss as his hands ran through her hair.

She was safe in his arms, just as she always had been.

She broke away from him, and asked, "Why is it that _you_ always sneak up on me?" He head was titled down, his forehead resting on hers. Their lips weren't even an inch apart.

She felt his lips against hers as he said, "Maybe you should sneak up on me." She heard the roughness in his voice. He was holding something back from her.

"What's wrong?" She searched his face with her eyes. She knew every inch of his face, had it memorized. He was keeping his emotions hidden from her.

"Your sister is causing trouble again." His reply was but a ghost of a whisper as his eyes bore into hers.

"That's nothing new." She tilted her head up to connect her lips to his for the briefest of moments. "She's been causing trouble for me since I was a little girl."

"I'm sorry," he murmured. She felt his arms wrap more tightly around her. "I'm really, really, sorry." His voice was desperate.

She looked at him with a bemused furrow in her brow. She began to speak, but he silenced her with a kiss.

"Please listen to me first." The dire tone of his voice silence all her questions. "No matter what, I love you. I know what I'm going to say is strange-" his voice cracked "-but I love you so much-" his breathing was ragged "-you're special. But if I _ever_ hurt you, know I'm sorry." Tears were running down his face. They looked like pearls against his marble skin. When she tasted her own salty tears, she realized she was crying too. But she was still confused.

Before she could ask why he was so upset, she felt a sharp pain in her back as a metal dagger pierced her skin. He held her up as she clutched onto him for support. Her vision blurred as her blood flooded the sacred Temple's steps.

A few last whispered words reached her ears before she blacked out completely.

"_I just want the best for you."_

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_An: That was longer than I expected. Oh, well. Hope you enjoyed that. Eventually, you'll figure out its significance to the actual story. Brownie points for people that can figure out who the girl is. I gave a few names, making it easier. ^_^_


	2. Chapter One: Folly

_Disclaimer: Everything and everybody belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me…well I own the plot, because plagiarizing is bad!_

_AN: This chapter might be boring. It's a lot of background- like a second prologue, except less fun than the real prologue._

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_Folly is the direct pursuit of happiness and beauty – _George Bernard Shaw

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**Chapter One:Folly**

_August 18, 1998_

At first, Hermione was actually discontent with the sudden turn of events. Discontent was the mild term for it. Actually, she was positively livid. Department of Magical Law Enforcement her foot! She wasn't even in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement! She was a part of Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical. She was a civil rights worker, trying to help subjugated creatures like house elves and keep pompous toe rags like Malfoy from unjustly sending hippogriffs to their untimely deaths. She was HermioneGranger, for goodness sake! Not a sock monkey to be flung across the continent at will. Especially, not on her scheduled time off.

She stopped in her mental tracks, ashamed by her behaviour, and rewound her thoughts. Yes, maybe, she wanted some time off after the gory Final Battle, the seemingly ceaseless funerals that had to be held for the brave souls who died, the perpetual court trials of Death Eaters, but it wasn't _necessary_. There were more important things to do, such as whatever she was doing now. The whole "Department of Magical Law Enforcement" thing pushed vice aside like it was a flimsy piece of parchment.

The Ministry of Magic, newly headed by Kingsley Shacklebolt was still undergoing enormous changes. People from the Order flocked in and out of the Ministry, either working there, or going in to meet Minister of Magic Shacklebolt regarding unfinished war business. Or, in Hermione's case, to talk over a much needed cup of hot chocolate.

Shacklebolt was a mature, wise minister, as opposed to the two previous ones, listening to any idea that came his way, from a merit-based system of government, to establishing a foundation to protect children orphaned by the war. Shacklebolt even listened to Ron's pleas of installing a chocolate fondue fountain by Harry's office. However, _listening_ doesn't always constitute_ fulfilling_.

Hermione half-smiled half-frowned thinking of Ron and his antics. Ron was doing fine after the war. He was trying to juggle family, friends, work, _and_ Hermione. On one hand, he was trying to help George out at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and last time Hermione had checked, he had been doing fine. Of course, he could never replace Fred, not to George, nor to anyone else. But, he could try to gradually heal the wound over time. They say time heals all wounds.

Ron and Harry were inseparable during the day, especially considering that they worked together. Both had become Aurors without the hassle of training. Shacklebolt had thought they both showed their courage and skills throughout their years of adolescence.

Harry was prized in the Ministry. After the Final Battle, he was on newspapers and magazines across Europe. The Boy Who Lived became the Chosen One, and then became the Man Who Conquered Evil, at least according to Rita Skeeter. To anyone who really mattered to him, he was just Harry, the lovable boy with messy hair. Hermione couldn't have been happier for him. He was finally able to do what he wanted without the constant threat of Voldemort popping up and killing him. The first thing he did as a freed man was attempt to ask Ginny out on a date.

Hermione remembered that day. She was sitting with Ginny in the kitchen of the Burrow, making sandwiches, when Harry walked in blushing like a girl around a school crush. In fact, it was the same blush Ginny used to have at her first year of Hogwarts. Harry couldn't find the words he was looking for, and every so often, he glanced at Hermione, begging her to rescue him. In the end, Hermione couldn't take it and walked out of the kitchen in order to leave Harry to his rambling. She walked right into Ron, who was listening in on Harry and Ginny. Of course, she protested with a quiet "Honestly, Ron" but she didn't protest when he grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her beside him to listen in. Ginny ended up kissing Harry just to get him to stop talking. Then, she asked if he would like to go on a date with her. Luckily, Harry's speaking skills improved before their date.

Ron and Hermione were also dating, sort of. Apparently, people were betting on how long it would take for them to get together. Hermione was just happy that the incessant bickering with Ron had stopped–mostly. They still had their scuffles with the occasional war thrown in, but they were less deadly. Hermione didn't argue with it. Arguing was just a way of life with Ron.

It wasn't that Ron was a terrible boyfriend. Ron actually surprised Hermione on more than one occasion, by sending her flowers, and when she was sick, bringing her some of Mrs. Weasley's famous chicken soup and spending the day trying to teach her chess. But as he said, she was just hopeless at the game. His exact words were more, "You're supposed to be the smartest witch to have attended Hogwarts in the past century, and you can't even play chess! What's wrong with you?"

Normally, the remark would have angered Hermione. Yet, with the exception of her throwing a king at Ron's head, she handled the situation fairly well. She was learning how to be less defensive about things Ron said, and he was learning how to keep his foot out of his mouth. It was a relationship based on compromise and she was fine with it. Most of the time.

At the current moment, she and Ron were off. They had fought the other day over some mundane subject that Hermione had already forgotten. But the words that were tossed between them were not so easily forgotten. Some hurtful things were said and some hurtful actions done. One of which was a slap from a tearful Hermione. He was an emotionally insensitive prick at times and Hermione had to work hard to keep her relationship with Ron. But it was nothing new–the working hard thing, that is.

She had always worked hard. When she was little, going to muggle school, all the kids would stay away from her because she was different. Strange things always seemed to happen around her, like floating cookies and milk. She had to work hard to prove herself normal, intelligent. When she went to Hogwarts, thinking that people would accept her, she inevitably found those people who disliked her for her heritage. And once again, she had to work hard to prove herself.

This whole thing with Ron was no different. Once they both cooled off they would be back together in no time. But there was always that requirement that work hard to prove themselves capable of being together.

Speaking of work, Hermione was less angry at the Ministry for sending her off across the continent, in a foreign country on official Ministry business. Currently, she was travelling on a muggle boat from Greece to Turkey via the Mediterranean Sea. It was a beautiful sight. The smell of the sea was intoxicating, much like her previous family visits to Italy.

Now that her parents were back from Australia, with their memories restored, of course, it was possible that she could go on a family vacation with them. Her mother always told her that somewhere in her lineage there was Roman blood. One day, Hermione would return to Rome with her mother and father to try to make amends for the year she deprived them of.

But now wasn't the time to fantasize about joyous family plans. There was work to do.

Lately, there had been apex in the dark magic levels in Eastern Europe. It was possible and probable that Death Eaters had been fleeing across Europe into the deepest crevices of the continent just to escape conviction. Surprisingly, while no muggles had been killed by the rogue Death Eaters, they had been reporting strange incidents occurring amongst themselves. Strange enough for wizards in the area to be worried.

"Enjoying the voyage?" the captain of the ship asked. Giovanni Gianotti was the middle-aged, bordering on old, captain of the _Bella_, a ship that had been in his family for generations. He was a muggle with bright blue eyes and greying brown hair. He had no magical ability whatsoever, but his family had resided along the Mediterranean since before the Romans. In Hermione's mind, he was a really sweet man, kind of like her Uncle John.

"Oh, yes," Hermione smiled at the captain as he settled beside her with his toothy smile. She was resting her arms on the railing of the ship, watching the sea's rich blue pass beneath her. "The view is absolutely breathtaking."

Indeed, it was. But Giovanni laughed at her–kindly but loudly, much like one would expect of Saint Nicholas. "You girls." He shook his head at her. "Always so easily pleased by pretty things."

Hermione was looked at him in confusion. "I'd expect that someone who spends so much time at sea would appreciate the beauty of the Mediterranean."

His baritone chuckle caused Hermione to smile. "You haven't seen anything yet. The entire area is precious. It's so full of life and death. It's so full of knowledge. You would not believe how historical this area on the Mediterranean is. "

A calm silence rose between them, and the roar of the motor seemed to drown out all thoughts. Hermione pondered on Giovanni's words, as he left to fulfil is captain duties. Knowledge was something she knew about. She was a knowledgeable person, always reading and learning. She was voracious for knowledge. The more she knew the better off she was. After all, a little knowledge was a dangerous thing, wasn't it?

And Hermione knew a few things about life too. Life wasn't always fair – not to Harry, whose childhood was snatched from him as an infant, not to George, who was incomplete without his doppelganger, and not to little Teddy Lupin, who would be forced to live his life as an orphan. Sometimes, life abandoned people when they needed help.

Now death. That was an entirely different subject. Although the war was full of death, violence, genocide, Hermione couldn't wrap her head around death. She understood that death came in his dark hood, a gleaming scythe in hand, and stole people in the middle of the night, in the middle of the day even. But what happened then? What did death do with his victims? Did he take them just to be cruel to the people he left on the Earth?

That was fate. Fate was the cold-hearted one. The unpredictable one that moved people like little pawns in a game of chess, her hot temper provoking her to strive for bigger, better, crueller.

But that still left death without a story. The matter of souls and passing on. Ghosts stayed on earth, but what about the rest of the world? And where did love play into the grand scheme of things? If fate was the planner of life, death was the ender of life, what was love in relation to life?

All these thoughts darted faster than time itself through Hermione's head, so fast that she herself barely caught a glimpse of them. They were evanescent, forgotten as easily as childhood memories, replaced by thoughts of her mission.

The streets of Izmir were full of life, but it was not what Hermione was looking for: a portkey. It was simple enough: find a portkey, go to the little city of Selcuk, then find and defeat trouble. It shouldn't have frustrated Hermione. Yet, she was frustrated beyond belief. She had no idea _who_ she was looking for.

'_Leave it to the Ministry'_ she thought, sighing unhappily. She reached into her bag pulled out an archaic map of Turkey. Multiple creases lined its surface like wrinkles on an elder's face. Hermione found an empty bench to sit at and recalculate her course of action. Delicately smoothing out the map, she found that Selcuk was about twenty miles from Izmir. Although she could attempt to hike, she really didn't want to. She didn't even want to think about it. She could have taken a bus, but she didn't exchange her British pounds for Turkish lira. She winced as her mother's stern voice echoed in her head, reminding her to always exchange money before leaving the U.K. She supposed she'd just have to ask for directions to the nearest bank and somehow manage to translate for herself.

"Pardon me," she waved at a man walking by her. He spared her a brief glance before walking off in hurry, suitcase in hand. Hermione attempted to catch someone else's attention, and someone else's and someone else's. Each time, they walked past her paying her absolutely no mind, too busy in the hubbub of the city. She would have been one of those people who enjoyed the warm sun and the tropical sea air, but she was once again reminded of her annoyance at the ministry. To think, she could have_ spent_ vacation in a beautiful Mediterranean city rather than _working_ near one.

Another busy person walked right by her as she attempted to ask for directions to the nearest bank. "Great," she muttered to himself. "Feels like being a first year all over again. Ouch!" Her eyes snapped down to her throbbing foot and then trailed after a rude passerby. He had the audacity to just keep walking without so much as a "sorry". But, it was also highly possible that in Turkey's second most populous city, the man hadn't even noticed he had almost broken her poor toes.

It was frustrating being a complete foreigner in a large city. She looked like a tourist, and that was probably the reason no one stopped to help her.

She glanced down at her shoes, toes still sore. Scratch that. They were Ginny's shoes. The younger girl forced Hermione to wear them, claiming that they would make Ron jealous and bring them back together in a matter of seconds. Hermione had no idea what spell had been cast on her. She agreed to wear the heavy, thick-healed black shoes despite knowing they would be a pain to walk in.

Looking down at said painful shoes, Hermione noted that her left foot was off balance. Something was sticking to the sole of Ginny's shoe. Hoping to Merlin that she hadn't stepped in gum, Hermione lifted her foot, bending it back behind her. Steadying herself on the side of a building, she looked back at her foot, finding a little gold locket in the shape of an ellipse, sitting peacefully on her shoe like a nice neat package.

How in the world did a locket come to find itself stuck on her shoe?

Hermione moved into a dark alcove, hiding herself from the muggles of Izmir. There, she examined the locket. It was small and not gold at all. It was just painted to look like gold. It was a cheap trinket that was unlikely to be missed. She had to find her portkey and go to Selcuk.

But her Gryffindor sense of honor forced her to attempt to find its rightful owner. Someone must be missing it if there was cherished memory hidden inside.

She carefully pried open the locket with hopes of finding a clue to who it belonged to. Her fingers struggled for a moment, slipping on the tiny locket, but eventually she was able to swing the locket open like a door revealing the secrets of a dark, forsaken house.

Inside, an child-like scrawl portrayed the word _Portkey_. Hermione's face scrunched in confusion for a second. Her portkey? Since when was it on her foot?

In an instant, it all became clear, in a cliché way. Hermione could have slapped _herself_ for not realizing sooner that the gold portkey came from the rude man who had crushed her foot. If he had just come up to her with her portkey, it would have been so much easier and much less painful for her.

She probably didn't have long before the portkey activated, sending her to Selcuk. She pushed all thoughts out of her mind, waiting for the familiar rush to overcome her and sweep her off her feet. The wait wasn't long.

No matter how many times she used a portkey, she could never land on her feet. She stumbled forward, her hand outstretched, searching for sweet, solid ground. Her hand found soft fabric instead. A tan hand helped her up, and Hermione couldn't help but to compare her fair skin with her abettor's much tanner one.

There was a young man beside her. His white robe, customary to this part of the world, was flowing in a slight breeze, making him look like an Arabian prince straight out of the tales Hermione's mum used to read to her at night. Standing next to him, Hermione felt uncouth in her jeans and tee-shirt. Not even Ginny's heels helped in the area of elegance.

"Ah, you must be Hermione Granger?" his deep voice asked her. "Of the Ministry in Great Britain?"

"Uh, well, yes," she stammered out before she could stop herself. She held in a frown at her clumsiness. She was a poor representation of her country, stuttering like a fool.

"I'm Adem Milic. Department of Foreign Affairs, Ministry of Magic, Turkey," he said, holding his hand out. Hermione took it, expecting to shake hands, but instead he pulled her closer and stealthily led her into a small clay house, presumably not his. The dramatic flair Adem had was unnecessary in Hermione's eyes. Really, sneaking around was much more ostentatious than just pretending to be good friends catching up with one another.

Perhaps it was just a male thing. Being overly dramatic, that is. How many times had Hermione been subject to the way Harry and Ron tried and succeeded in sneaking up on her with a warm cup of hot chocolate in hand? How many times had her own father dramatically captured her when she refused to sit still when she was a little kid?

"Please sit down Ms. Granger." He offered her a chair, made of strangely light wood and woven stray. It matched the rest of the house well, but Hermione suspected that no one coordinated the decor of the house. She suspected that no one really lived in the house.

"I've heard that there have been some strange, uh-" she really had no idea how to say it diplomatically, "-_occurrences_ happening throughout this area."

"Death Eaters," Adem said bluntly, throwing social manners aside. Hermione cringed, remembering the taboo on _Voldemort_ and hoping that the Death Eaters didn't try something similar for protection. "From your country."

His voice held a biting tone, one that surprised Hermione. It absolutely shocked her. The Arabian prince just lost his radiance, turning into an arrogant jerk with every word he spoke.

"We want _you_ to get them out of _our_ land and back into _yours_." His voice held contempt and Hermione had to grit her teeth to keep from giving him a piece of her mind.

Her nation was suffering poor international credit, and that clearly showed in Adem's treatment of Hermione. The war had not only completely ravaged Wizarding Great Britain, but it also caused fear throughout other countries in Europe. They would rather practice isolationism and leave the British to deal with their own problems. While some foreigners would love to help the British, most, like Adem, just wanted the violence and fear to remain in Great Britain.

And while their standpoint was understandable, the rude, crude and socially unacceptable behavior that Adem was portraying to Hermione was _not_ ok.

"It would help if _you_ told where to look for this _supposed_ Dark Magic." _Oops_. Did she really just say that? She couldn't prevent some of her annoyance from seeping through her mouth and embedded itself in her words.

By the look on Adem's face, he wasn't expecting that to come out of her mouth either. Hermione felt ashamed of her lack of control, and gave him an apologetic smile.

He ignored her and simply stated, "Ephesus."

A million facts rushed through Hermione's mind, none of them the rude tone Adem used. Ephesus was a well known in both the wizard world and the muggle world. In the muggle world, it was the home of the Temple of Artemis, one of seven wonders of the ancient world. To wizards, it was the home of the Temple of Artemis, ancient muggle homage to the antediluvian witch Artemis.

There was a lot of magic at Ephesus, so much so that even muggles could feel it when they stepped onto the grassy lands, when they saw the marble ruins still inhabiting the area. It was that feeling of shivers combined with the sudden theft of one's breath. It was unexplainable magic, even to the best witches and wizards.

Who knew what kind of dastardly deeds the Death Eaters were doing? How much power could they harness and use for their evil plans? Were they even planning anything evil?

Hermione shot up from her seat. "I'll be going then."

"Alone?" At first, she thought was offering to go with her. It was a touching silver lining in the horrid cloud image he had created for himself. And then, "Good luck."

She had to blink a few times, giving him a chance to redeem himself. And nothing came.

"Thank you," she said through clenched teeth, leaving to face what could be a dangerous group of Death Eaters harnessing powerful magic for iniquitous objectives. With her luck, they would be a bunch of men, as rude as Adem had just been. She would personally hex their faces off for ruining her vacation time.

And thus, a while later, Hermione stomped her way through untended grass, wild flowers, and trees, angry, but not close to angry enough to not appreciate the way the breeze made nature dance in the night.

It was breathtaking. The breeze smiled upon Hermione's cheeks, blowing her soft bushy hair gently and wafting the scent of flowers through the air. It was a place Hermione would have loved to go for a vacation. The sense of historical importance radiated out of the ground, swirling around her.

Perhaps the Death Eaters came here for a holiday from killing and fleeing. And perhaps Hermione's great aunt was a hippogriff.

The actual temple itself–or its ruins–was harmless. It was a quiet, in a peaceful manner, not suspicious in the least. Her instincts, fine tuned during the war, told her to keep walking and find something that would truly capture her attention.

When an eerie sensation doused over her, Hermione carefully pulled out Bellatrix's wand. Her wand. It felt ugly in her hands, but a wand was a wand. Whether it was hers or Bellatrix's, it would protect her against any threats.

Each step she took, the magnitude of _something_ grew larger inside her, until her heart was pounding wildly against her chest. Its beats were like thunder in the silence of the night, and she prayed that she was the only one who heard their intensity.

She came across an octagonal structure, large enough to fit multiple people. Its walls were white stone, slowly deteriorating into slate. Something scratched at the back of her head, but she couldn't remember what. She moved closer and closer to the building, noticing something engraved on the wall closest to her. The symbols covered the wall from top to bottom, left to right. There was writing on the adjacent side, and the side after that and the next one too, all the way around the octagon. She would have to come back someday and translate the whole building, but now, there was business to take care of.

She rounded the octagon once, twice and a third time, ignoring the obvious entrance to the building. It was the muggle entrance, created by erosion and easily accessible to muggles. It would be a last resort when she couldn't find anything else. And a last resort it was. Normally, finding a clue, piecing together puzzles was easy for her, but something about the octagon was difficult. It was an enigma and not knowing what the octagon was made Hermione frustrated.

She could have gone back to Selcuk and asked someone for help but the idea of asking a complete stranger, possibly a rude stranger, made Hermione frown.

She ventured inside the octagon, using the entrance. She had to dance around the fallen stones, Ginny's shoes kicked off lying somewhere in the grass, but at least the rest of the building was cleared. It was a tourist attraction for the thousands of people who visited every day.

The dirt was moist from years of being in the darkness. And although being in a foreign building in the dark was a stupid idea, Hermione felt as if it would be wrong to illuminate the building after possibly centuries of dark. It was an ancient building, no doubt, built when the temple of Artemis was still in its glory years. It was large and roomy on the inside, comfortably so. Hermione couldn't help but wonder if someone had lived in the building. It could have been a home where people slept. It could easily fit a small family.

"But why would anyone stay in an octagon building when an august temple was barely a few metres away?" Her own voice sounded foreign against the equanimity of the octagon. No longer was she searching for rogue Death Eaters. The probability of them being here was slim to none. No, this was a conundrum, and Hermione never backed away from a good mystery.

Hermione wanted to explore the building's inside. Although it was spacious, it wasn't a mansion. It wasn't even a house. She reached for the wall, as a guide, her eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. She felt more than damp water and fungus. She felt power pulsating through the walls. She snatched her hand away, not sure if it was good or bad power. It could be anything and she wanted to know what. But she had heard of terrible things happening to people messing with the unexplainable, the mysterious, the powerful.

Curiosity killed her, and she leaned against the wall with both hands. It was different feeling, this power. It was something she had never felt before.

The side of the eight-sided building slid open in a manner similar to sliding doors in muggle stores. But instead of leading outside, back to the safe warmth of the Turkish summer, it led to small room. Hermione, who had been previously leaning on the hidden door, tumbled forward into lesser darkness, but darkness nonetheless. Her wand slipped out of her hand, falling to the ground with a low thud. But Hermione was too stunned to pick it up.

The room was cache of some sort. There were baubles and trinkets galore. It looked undisturbed for years, the piles of valuables unmoved since they were first placed in the vault. As she walked around the little room, she could make out the outline of pots, vases, pictures, and other everyday items. It reminded her of the ancient Egyptians, who buried their dead with all their belongings for the next life. There were tombs all over Egypt with piles of personal belongings. Come to think of it, the octagon was probably built around the time the Egyptians...

Hermione tasted blood. She was biting her tongue, trying to hold in a scream. It was an ancient tomb. The tomb at Ephesus. How could she have been so stupid? She should have realized it before. Archaeologists had found the body of a young girl sealed inside the tomb decades ago, most likely from the time of the Romans. Who knew what kind of curses were placed on this large tomb, probably the tomb of someone important?

Shivers ran down her spine. She turned for the exit with hopes to escape the tomb quickly and without harm. But fate had other plans for her. Her barefoot struck something–a shard of glass? It pierced the soft skin of her foot. The metallic smell of blood mingled with the smell of musk. She fell, cursing the blasted glass for being in her way, cursing Bellatrix's blasted wand for falling, cursing Ginny's blasted heels, and cursing the terrible week she was having.

She shifted her foot, making herself more comfortable and hitting some of the dead girl's beloved items in her attempts. It didn't matter, not when unbearable throbs coursed through her foot. She clutched her injured foot, trying to find the glass that had lodged itself there. There was nothing there. Not a single scratch. No blood. Nothing.

Was she going crazy? She stared at her fingers. The blood stained them, much like the pomegranate juice that had stained Persephone's fingers before she had damned herself to hell. The blood was real, so where was the glass?

Hermione pulled herself up. Her foot was still sore, from whatever had happened to it. She stepped carefully, afraid of hurting her foot again.

There was something about the historical area of Ephesus that was scaring the wizards of Selcuk. It was starting to scare Hermione too. She just wanted to find her wand and leave. She wanted to get back to her house and sleep in a warm bed. She wanted to be in Great Britain. The cold dark Turkish night was killing her.

Her foot hit something hard and cold, but little, definitely little. She tried to carefully probe it with her foot. Hermione sighed in relief when she ascertained that it wasn't a dead body. At least no one had died in here before her, and if someone had, she didn't want to know. She shivered imagining skulls and bones strewn across the room.

Hermione reached down, grabbing the cold object. It was metal, probably gold, but it was hard to tell in the dark. It was a pendant, attached to a chain. Her eyes, which had begun to adjust to the dark, could make out the shape of the necklace. An ankh. Set in the middle of the loop was a large gem, gleaming dark red in the night.

The ankh was slick with liquid. Hermione sniffed it slightly, smelling metallic blood, her blood. It gleamed in the intricate crevices of the ankh's design. The dark red gem also seemed to glimmer–no, _pulsate_–despite the lack of light.

It was beautiful. The dark rouge colouring that emitted from the ankh lured Hermione. There was something achingly gorgeous about the pulsating gem. There was something about it that called for Hermione, something about it that begged for her to put it around her neck and feel the weight of the beautiful red and gold on her skin.

She couldn't disobey. She was no Odysseus who could resist the siren's call. She was no Perseus, who could avoid Medusa's deadly eyes. She was just Hermione, a girl tempted by ruby red gems and pomegranate juice blood.

Hermione couldn't help but be tempted.

She wasn't until the necklace was firmly planted around her neck that she realized what she had done. How could she have been so naive, so foolish, as to place a possibly cursed necklace, one of great power, around her neck? She went to pull the necklace off, but it was too late, much too late.

Her vision blacked out as she fell to the ground, engulfed in a bright light.

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_AN: I hope I kept Hermione in character. Don't hurt me for anything I did wrong. :( But do review. It makes me smile. :)_


	3. Chapter Two: The Existence of Forgetting

_Disclaimer: Nothing (but the plot) belongs to me! Don't file a lawsuit! It's all J.K. Rowlings!_

_AN: I actually wrote this a while ago, but hadn't the time to read and revise it. Darn school and SATs. I thought it would be a good idea to finish this chapter (by pushing aside school work) before I disappear for a few months. I honestly can't wait until summer._

_Anyway, read and review!_

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_The existence of forgetting as never been proved: we only know that some things do not come to our mind when we want them to._

_~Friedrich Nietzsche_

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**II**

**The Existence of Forgetting**

"Oh, how terrible," Melania Black frowned sympathetically. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress robe, revealing her lack of real empathy. "I've never had that problem with my Orion."

"Oh, but Orion is still young," interjected Irma Black, Melania's cousin. "These teenagers grow so much by the time they are of age. You'll have to wait until he is Alphard's age."

There was a little gathering taking place on a large patio. The furniture, made of the best marble possibly found, was occupied by scores of women, sitting and chatting as if the patio was their second home.

Sitting like a queen in between two young women was Aurelia Chivington, sixty-three, with long silver hair. Her manor off of Rye was full of young women, seeming to think that company would ameliorate the grief she had been suffering for months. The company certainly served to divert Aurelia's attention to how old she was becoming, and her lack of heirs.

Octavia Nott scoffed at Irma's statement, flipping her dark hair behind her shoulders. "My Silas doesn't behave in that manner. He's perfectly respectable."

Aurelia frowned as her eyes passed between Irma and Octavia. The two women were glaring heatedly at each other–or at least as heatedly as possible in the high-mannered society they resided in. Before Irma could retort with her dagger-like words, Aurelia had to cut in. She would rather not have a full-fledged duel break out around her antique tea set.

Her aging hands carefully placed her tea cup and saucer on the marble patio table. The firm clinking of the glass attracted the younger women's attention. All ten of the younger women turned to Aurelia with concern, concern that Aurelia found annoying. She was old–not dying of some incurable disease.

"Lavinia," her voice was strong despite her sometimes shaky hands. "How is Druella's ball coming along?"

The mention of the ball caused the women to babble on about parties, the latest fashion and the likes. Young women. They were so easily pleased by pretty things. Aurelia remembered her younger days in the manor. The days she had found so stressful then seemed so whimsical now.

"Irma, Cygnus and Walburga are coming, aren't they?" Lavinia turned toward Irma, with bright blue eyes. She looked much like the wife of a Rosier. The Rosier men were known for choosing petit women with sharp features. It was a trademark among the noble families to choose spouses based on characteristic features. It was like breeding dragons or some other wild animal, only to sell that creature later in its existence.

Everyone knew that Lavinia was attempting to sell Druella to Irma. It was an accepted part of life, one that Aurelia had done with her daughter Ophelia and was planning to do with her granddaughter. Life was difficult. Aurelia had so many plans, so many aspirations for her granddaughter, but life just didn't play out how she planned. Raging war tended to ruin plans. Her plans were slashed by the claws of death into shreds, not even salvageable. Not in the least.

"My Brighton will be coming," Odell Lestrange said. "He and Sage have always gotten along well."

"Don't forget about my Hiram!" The squeaky voice of Corinne Mulciber cut in.

Aurelia could have cried if she wasn't so proper. She was hell bent on staying prim in front of these girls. She had no idea why they even found it necessary to come to her manor every other Tuesday afternoon for a tea party. Their faces painted with bright scarlet lipstick and rouge. They looked like circus clowns in the bright sunlight. And worse of all, they were trying to force _her_, a sixty-three-year-old widow into painting her face. Not even if all of Hades broke loose. What was she going to do? Find some young rich man and seduce him into marriage with globs of makeup? She already had all the money she needed.

"Aurelia," Louisa Avery, with her face covered in the terrible paint, asked gently. She talked to Aurelia as if Aurelia was just a china doll soon-to-be broken. "Are you coming to Druella's ball?"

Of course, there was one advantage to the young women's naive view of Aurelia.

"Oh, I don't know," she mumbled, using her most feeble voice. "I haven't been feeling too well as of late." She added a cough for kicks. The girls probably thought she was going to die, which she wasn't. She would do anything to keep from going to yet another debutante ball. "It's nothing that bad," she continued, "However, if I feel better by Saturday, I'll be delighted to come."

They all nodded with worried looks on their faces, though, Aurelia had no idea how they could even convey feelings with their faces drenched in makeup and their hair pulled back so tightly that it was difficult to move their heads. At least she wouldn't have to put up with this at the ball.

Awkward silence enveloped the group for a few moments. The heavy sighs of a few of the women only seemed to make the silence deepen. Aurelia held in her laughter. Despite being old, she liked to think of herself as fairly light-hearted when the time called for it. But now was an inappropriate time to begun laughing. She let the girls' young eyes glance around the lush green landscape surrounding them.

Finally, when the silence became unbearable, Corinne opened her scarlet lips. "Beautiful weath-"

A loud crash cut off her words. It diverted the attention away from the beautiful arrangement of tea cups and furniture and the frivolous tea party to a spot a few yards off.

Aurelia ran, with vitality that negated the claim of ill-health she had previously promulgated, to a girl, fallen and injured.

From a distance, she thought that her elderly eyes were deceiving her. But now that Aurelia was beside the young girl, younger by far than the middle-aged women she had for guests, she couldn't deny what she saw.

Lying limply in her arms was hauntingly pale skin and pale brown curls.

_She was standing high up on a cliff. There was a breathtaking view of the ocean beneath her, the sun a bloodshot red at sunset. It was windy. Her hair flew around her and she could barely keep herself upright. There was such a force behind it that she tumbled forward. Forward and right over the edge. Gravity pulled her down, down, down. She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't watch as she fell and fell and fell. She was prepared to hit hard rocks and be crushed, but it never came._

_She dove under the ocean's surface, struggling for air. She wasn't expecting her last breath of air to be her last. She swam up and up. But there wasn't any water. It was viscous, sticking to her body as she fought for her breath. It was ruby red, blood. It was the sunset._

_She reached the surface, her fingertips so close to the top, to the air. She reached up and her fingers hit hard rock. It was like glass, a harsh stone. She pushed against the glass with all her strength. Once. Twice. Thrice. Her lips started to tremble, and before she knew it, tears were running down her cheeks, feeling so much heavier than the liquid engulfing her. She was running of strength and couldn't hold in her breath any longer._

_She pounded on the glass with all her strength. _

_One._

_She felt herself slowly slipping downward in the liquid._

_Two._

_Her fingers grazed the stone glass, her nails barely scratching it._

_Three._

_And that was it. Her time was up. She gasped, a pain in her chest overtaking her. And even as she gasped for air, drowning in blood, she pounded on the red gem with all the strength she could muster._

_There on the other side was someone pounding back. Dark haired, dark skinned, young and swimming in the air, there was a girl, just as desperate as she. Haunted._

_But it was too late. She was out of breath, drowned in red, seeing darkness as she drifted down to the bottom of the ocean._

She opened her eyes, blinded by the brightest white she had ever seen. It blinded her for a moment, her eyes not adjusted to so much light. She gasped, expecting more liquid red to flood to her lungs. Instead, she tasted sweet air, like a balm to her chest.

"She's awake." A breathless sigh came from somewhere in the room. "Oh, dear Merlin! She's awake!"

She moaned. The light, the sounds, it was all too much for her.

A deeper voice whispered, "Calm down. She's probably disoriented."

Disoriented was an understatement. She lips naturally tried to form a smile, but they couldn't. It hurt too much.

"She's lucky she didn't splinch herself," the deeper voice said. "It was just poor apparation. Without a wand and license to say the least!"

"I'm just grateful that she's alive." It was that shaky, breathless voice again. "Months of thinking she was dead, and now, she's here."

"Miss?"

She groaned in response, struggling to sit up. She felt hands on her back, pulling her up. She had to clutch the sheets that surrounded her in order to feel balanced. The room was spinning. It continued to spin as some man poked and prodded her, trying to see if anything was physically wrong. He was a healer at St. Mungo's. That much she could tell.

"Miss?" he asked softly. He was a brunet, with pretty blue eyes. She found herself staring at those eyes wondering if she could escape if she swam in _them_. She wondered if they would drown her. "Miss? Do you understand me?"

She opened her mouth painfully and whispered, "Yes."

"Thank Merlin!" The other voice was clearly a women's. "She's alright."

She looked at Healer, watching him roll his eyes. Conspiratorially, he whispered "Oh goodness. That's Lady Chivington for you."

"Who?"

Healer frowned, obviously confused about something. "Your grandmother."

Her grandmother? At St. Mungo's? That statement just didn't seem to bode well with her. It sounded off. More than off. It sounded absolutely wrong.

Healer's frown deepened, causing her to frown herself. "Could you tell me your name?"

She had to think for a moment. The distracting panic of the woman in the room wasn't helping either. It was disconcerting to hear, "Of course she remembers. What do you mean?" She didn't remember at all. Her name was something long and unusual. Something people couldn't really pronounce. What was it again? A growl of annoyance was threatening to escape her mouth. She knew this! It was something with a huh and a muh, somewhere in it.

"Huhmuh." She finally decided that was close enough to her name.

"Miss," Healer looked worried. There was a funny feeling in her mind. As if someone was searching through it. _Legilimency._ And then it was gone. "There's nothing there. No memories."

"What memories?" It was the truth. She couldn't remember anything other than swimming.

"Oh," Woman wailed out. "Oh, my darling granddaughter!"

"Calm down," Healer turned away from her, and to Woman. He was trying to calm Woman down. Thank goodness. Woman was giving her a headache.

"We really can't do anything now." Healer turned back to her and smiled sadly, but he was talking to Woman. "She's going to have to see if time reverses the damage."

"What happened?" Woman demanded. "People don't just lose their memories like that!"

"Like I said, _currently_, there's nothing accessible." Healer smiled sadly at Woman, who was clearly not dealing with the information well. "It could have been from apparating poorly, or from events that occurred before apparating."

Woman sounded distressed. "You mean..." She trailed off, horrified. "Dark Magic?"

Healer was patting an old, aging hand, trying to console Woman. What a nice man. And so young too. She strained to hear what Healer was whispering to Woman. He was telling her something important, as seen by the cute look on his face as he tried to explain kindly to a frantic Woman.

"Well, there's certainly powerful magic. Otherwise, she would still have memories," Healer said, frowning. Poor Healer. She must be causing him a load of trouble, even from her hospital bed. "I'm not sure if Dark Magic or if it's just a power apparation gone terribly wrong."

Healer turned back from woman to look at her with a smile, but he was still talking to Woman. "Would you like to hear the good news?" Although she couldn't see Woman, she must have nodded her assent, desperate for some hope in the mess.

Healer, who was still looking at her, blessed her with a pearly white smile. "At least she still looks beautiful." The statement was followed by a swoon worthy wink. But she didn't swoon, nor did she giggle. It was highly uncharacteristic of her. She never remembered giggling over a boy in her life. But, then again, she really couldn't remember anything, could she? When was the last time she had even seen a boy?

Healer left the room, taking his blue eyes and that smile with him. She now had a clear view of Woman. Tall, silver haired and old. Oh yes, and overly apprehensive. That was Woman.

She wanted Healer back.

Woman slowly walked over to her bed and sat down. On her bed. Right next to her hand. Woman was impinging on her personal bubble. For all she knew Woman could be a psycho. It would explain her anxious behaviour. But Woman wasn't wearing the expression of a mentally deranged killer. There was a wistful expression on Woman's face.

"Maybe you would have remembered your name if we didn't give you some convoluted name from Shakespeare." Woman was talking to her as if they had known each other forever. But they didn't.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Do I know you?"

Pain flashed across Woman's eyes. Guilt overcame her for making this poor Woman feel sad. How old was Woman? Ninety? She really should be nice to Woman. Woman's heart could just give out any moment.

"Maybe you would have remembered me if I visited more than once a year." Woman gently patted her hand. "I'm your grandmother, Aurelia Chivington. And you're my granddaughter, Hermione Whitlow."

_Grandmother. _No, no. The face didn't match up with the name. Grandmother was.... She was.... Not this woman. Certainly not.

Whitlow sounded all wrong too. No, no, no, no. None of this was right. Not the grandmother, not the last name, not the apparation part. She didn't remember apparating. The only part of the puzzle that fit was Hermione. And even that was surprising. As Woman, or Grandmother, said, Hermione was a convoluted name from Shakespeare. But Hermione was _her_ convoluted name from Shakespeare.

Grandmother– it was still _all_ wrong–sighed. "Your mother was Ophelia Whitlow and your father was Jasper Whitlow." Hermione blinked. That was wrong too, but she couldn't find the strength to protest with indignation. She would just have to ask subtley.

"Ma'am?" Hermione tested the waters. "Are you sure you have the right girl?" The woman's eyes widened in surprise. She looked about ready to burst into tears. "Am I really your granddaughter?" Hermione closed her eyes, prepared to be hit with waterworks. There were none.

"Of course!" The woman looked shocked at such a thought. "You look just like your mother." A flash of blond hair and perfect white teeth flashed through Hermione's mind, but it was gone in an instant. Hermione had no idea what her mother looked like.

Hermione needed to see for herself what she looked like. She had no idea who she was. Her memory was gone. She was thrust into the hands of someone she didn't know. She needed a familiar face, and hopefully she would recognize her own.

"Do you have a mirror?"

"Of course, darling," Grandmother stood up walked away from Hermione and to a large bag thrown haphazardly on a chair. Inside would be a mirror. Hermione could finally sort this mess out. Could finally figure out who she was. Because she was certainly not this woman's granddaughter.

"Here," Grandmother said as she returned with a mirror. "You were dirty and had a few bruises from falling, but Healer Greengrass fixed you up. Now, you look fine." She was trying to be helpful. Hermione probably looked like something the cat dragged in, chewed up, spit out, and dragged back outside. She certainly felt like it, and she dreaded looked at the mirror. But she forced herself to reach out for the mirror.

She took the little hand mirror, unsure if she was fit to handle such a beautiful square piece, its back covered pink gems and silver arranged in flowers. It was probably some kind of heirloom only meant for the hands of family members and here she was ruining it with her grimy hands. Poor Grandmother probably really thought she was Hermione's grandmother. Hermione wondered for a moment what kind of family Grandmother came from. What kind of family _she _herself might possibly have come from. Her life was black, shrouded in darkness, but she had never discovered such pretty heirlooms before.

She glanced up at Grandmother, stalling for time. She was deathly afraid of looking in the mirror and seeing the face that would stare back. What if it wasn't her face? What if everything she thought she knew was wrong?

She sighed and gathered her courage. _It's just a silly reflection. Look already! _She slowly brought her arm up with the mirror at arm's length. As Hermione looked into the mirror, a motley tumult of emotions swirled inside her. That was the face she knew. The peach skin, although a little pallid from her situation, was hers. There was her hair, currently a light ash brown mess of curls. Those were her eyes, a chocolate colour, staring back at her. That was her. But who was everyone else? Why couldn't she remember anyone other than herself? Why did she feel like there was something she was desperately missing?

It was like her mind was an endless ocean. Where the land should be, there was none. She was swimming, a castaway, in search of land. No matter how hard she tried to reach land, it was impossible.

"Grandmother?" The word tasted foreign on Hermione's tongue. "What happened?" There was no recollection of past events in Hermione's brain. It's like it all disappeared.

"I was hoping you could tell me that."

She honestly couldn't. She was struggling against infinite red currents and she was powerless.

And that powerlessness scared her the most.

"Of course, young Master Nott." A little house elf squeaked after just setting down a plate of food. She was eyeing him carefully, all while addressing Silas, his master. "Petal was pleased to bring young Master and his friends something to eat." The little elf walked away in her dingy little pillow case dress, glancing back every so often to look at him.

There were six of them sitting in Silas' drawing room. The Nott's mansion was in the countryside, close to Kent, but undetectable to the muggle eye. It had been here for centuries, like most pureblood homes. It was also grand like most pureblood homes.

He could have laughed at the irony in his life. Everything was wrong. His father, a mere muggle, a despicable one at that, had a huge mansion in Little Hangleton, while his maternal family, descendents of the great Salazar Slytherin himself, had been reduced to living in an impoverished little thing, barely acceptable to be called a shack.

However, that was last summer. Now there was no Tom Riddle Senior. How that name evoked such _hatred_ in him. To think, he once thought that his father was a wizard and his mother a muggle. There were no more Riddles; he wasn't a Riddle. He was Tom, or better yet, Voldemort. Pretty soon that name would become common in the heart of people all over the world, and his original name would be forgotten. That family– the Riddles–and their iniquity was forever vanquished. He killed his dastardly father and grandparents. They got their just desserts and nobody was the wiser to the fact that he, Voldemort, had used the Killing Curse on them. His Uncle Morfin was easily Imperioed into confessing to the crime. And that was the last of his maternal family.

Since then, he was truly an orphan, and he couldn't have been happier. He had no use for familial piety when he had relations that would take him somewhere.

Here he was, sitting in a pureblood mansion, with the mansion's occupant serving him tea and biscuits. Lying beside him on the lounge chair was his latest letter from Hogwarts with details of what he needs for his seventh and final year at Hogwarts. Everything on that list was already bought early that morning, as soon as a tawny owl had dropped the letter into his lap.

What was truly significant about the letter was the silver and green pin that accompanied it. _Head Boy_. Of course, he knew that the position was his. He knew it since the moment he first became a prefect, and possibly even before, but the material object was his prize, his trophy, something that not even the wealthiest of pureblood boys in his school had gotten this year. And there was only one reason why. _He_ had gotten it.

He looked up from his glorious trophy and rolled his eyes. His comrades were attacking the plate like barbarians, letting their teenage stomachs control them. It looked like they hadn't eaten in months.

"Back to business." Those few words made his companions look up from the nearly empty platter and compose themselves like the nobles they were.

"Sage, if you will." He looked at the brown-haired boy, short and stocky. But he was a master at researching, and with Nott's vast library, Sage Rosier was right at home.

"Of course."

"Silas' library has many books on the Dark Arts. But I found the old tales to useful, considering they outline ancient magic." Sage pulled out a large tome with a brown skin. It smelt of dust. "This one is book all about immortality."

Tom ignored Silas' "Hey, my mother used to read that to me!" and Hiram Mulciber's "How convenient." Instead, he raised one eyebrow, signalling that Sage continue with his findings.

"There was a story about a murderer who could split his soul. However, it ended poorly. The bloke went off his rocker. He killed too many people."

Tom shook his head. Those were horcruxes, and he didn't want anything more to do with those. Although he had already made one out of Salazar's ring, i.e. the one on his finger, they weren't foolproof. He wanted infallible immortality–immortality that could not be snatched away from him whatsoever. More horcruxes would be a last resort if need be, but there had to be something else that could bring immortality. Something that guaranteed that death would never find him. A way to challenge death to a duel and win.

"There was another story that I found interesting."

"You find every story interesting," snorted Emory Avery.

Sage threw a heated glare at Emory, but continued with his research, fortunately. Tom wasn't in the mood for a petty brawl.

"It was an ancient story about the high wizards of Egypt centuries ago. There was the Book of the Dead, which I'm sure you've heard of."

"Rosier," Tom drawled. "I'm not interested that book."

It was a famous Egyptian book known for guiding people through death. He wasn't planning on dying, thus he wasn't going to read a book with the word "dead" in it. Not unless it was _How to Never Be Dead_. Unfortunately, there was no such book. If there was, Tom's life would be so much easier.

"There was another book. One from Egypt that predates the Book of the Dead."

Sage's voice was sped up, bordering on excited. Tom sat up, knowing that when Sage was excited there was something good coming. Sage did not become excited just anything.

"Spit it out Rosier," Silas egged him on. "We're dying of curiosity here." Although his tone was sarcastic, it was true. The room was filled with tension, ready to be set on fire any moment.

"The Book of Magick."

Tom's lips formed a tight line, far from the contentment he had almost felt before. He was dubious. That didn't sound like a book full of dark magic. It didn't sound like a book full of any _decent_ magic. It sounded like a children's book – like Peter Pan or Cinderella. Pure rubbish, told to the weak to inspire them.

"Not much is known about it, but it's supposedly really powerful."

"Supposedly?" Emory echoed unsaid Tom's thoughts.

"The sorcerer Thoth wrote it based on the movements of the planets and stars."

"Oh great," Hiram sighed. "More astronomy. I thought I was done with that class last year. Wait till Brighton hears about this."

In a split second, all four of Tom's companions began bickering over Merlin knows what. It was a simple task. Research on different methods of power. Secretly, Tom wanted to know about the power of immortality. He sighed. They were still bickering. This was getting to be too much. No one would stop talking long enough for Sage's "great" discovery to come to light. He was a busy man. Each second without knowing the secrets to immortality was a second closer to death. Each second closer to death was equal to an increasingly unhappy Tom, and an unhappy Tom was not a force that one looked forward to dealing with. He couldn't stand it any longer.

"That's enough." His voice rang through the drawing room, making his fellow shut their mouths. "If you're all done acting puerile, I'd like to return to the matter on hand." They looked at him for a moment. "Now." His word was like a command of a master ordering his slaves.

But Tom wasn't really their master and they weren't really his slaves. If he had to choose an analogy to describe his relation with the boys, it would be something different than slavery. Tom was like a prince. Yes, that was a good way to put it. He was the Prince of Slytherin and he had a ring to prove how utterly true it was. The Slytherins were his subjects, free to do as they please, but loyal to him, knowing that he was their prince. The five other seventh year boys, four of which were in Silas' drawing room with him, were his close circle of advisors, but still his subjects. He was a noble prince, not a pathetic slave master, whose entire existence–entire power–was dependent on his slaves. No, Tom was a prince, his power inherent.

"Well," Sage sighed. "I lost my train of thought." Tom didn't miss the glare he sent Hiram.

"The Book of Magick?" Tom prodded, sounding bored already.

"Oh, yes." Sage picked up the heavy book of tales, placed it in front of Tom and flipped through it to a section on Egypt. "Here."

Tom skimmed over the pages, his interest piqued by the fact that disaster befell those who owned the book. It was similar to The Deathstick and its bloody trail through Europe. But both were probably just legends, intended to be told as horror stories to scare young children away from becoming power-hungry monsters. This tale was of no use to him. Not now anyway.

He closed the book and pushed it aside. "Put this book in the trunk."

Sage did as he was told, looking pleased with himself for finding such a book. A few moments later, after the sound of locks clicking closed, Sage returned and took a seat next to Tom.

Leaning back in that casually elegant manner all Slytherin boys mastered as first years, Sage said, "What happened to that dress robe you bought today? It's not on your trunk."

"It's being delivered. It's still in need of a few minor alterations."

Minor was a poor representation of the depth of tailoring needed. Tom had grown another few inches over the year, much to his annoyance. While he liked being taller than his classmates, allowing him to show his mental _and_ physical superiority, it was a pain having to alter his clothes every few months.

"Going to Druella's ball then?" Emory asked.

"Yes." Tom's answer was curt. As if the answer wasn't obvious. Since he was staying at the Rosier's home the week before school started, it was sensible that he was going to the ball at their home the Saturday two days before they returned to Hogwarts.

He became weary when Hiram smiled _that_ smile. He had unofficially dubbed it the gossip smile. That smile was more often than not followed by a tirade of gossip on the latest chit he was trying to woo. Sometimes it was the latest girl that his mother was trying to get him to court.

"My mother came back from a very interesting tea party this afternoon."

Thank Merlin, Tom didn't have a mother to go to silly tea parties. He was almost terrified of having a mother like Hiram'. Corinne Mulciber was a high-pitched blonde who wore too much lipstick. It was hilarious to watch Hiram walk around, a lipstick kiss on his cheek, unbeknownst to him, but Tom didn't want to have a mother like Corinne "Matchmaking" Mulciber.

"I'm pretty sure all of our mothers were there," Silas pointed out.

"Yes, but I'm the only one offering to tell the story."

"That's because you gossip like a girl," Sage told him.

"I do not!"

Tom lounged in his chair, toying with his ring, allowing his companions to talk amongst themselves. He was watching his cortege, allowing them freedom for a moment. They were pureblood boys living in a restricting society, but that didn't mean they weren't rude, crude and sociably unacceptable periodically. Sometimes, barely sometimes, Tom was amused by the childish antics of his classmates. When in their homes alone, they forgot the ways of the world. On rare occasion, he'd let them enjoy their freedom as long as they didn't forget who reigned over them.

"Hiram." Tom leaned forward, placing his forearms on his knees. "Just get to the story."

"Of course."

There was that obedience Tom loved so much and that princely power that caused it was not forgotten even in their homes. The boys around him knew that he was capable of all they could imagine and more without even being told. It was instinct. Innate like his power.

"You see, my mother was just having tea with Mrs. Chivington."

"And who's Mrs. Chivington?" Tom asked, leaning back casually, hands behind his head. He could tell this would be a long story and began to regret allowing Hiram to tell it.

"She's and an old widow. She's completely alone. Her husband died years ago of some disease."

Silas decided to join in, adding, "She had a daughter who went to Hogwarts with our parents. Ophelia Whitlow, nee Chivington."

The way they told the story was like a fable, fictional, each taking a line of the story. They talked about the old widow the same way the children at the orphanage foolishly told ghost stories. Especially the older ones, who told stories with such menace when he was much younger.

"And the importance of this is?" Tom barely managed to hold in the snappish tone. He didn't have all day for stories.

"Of this?" Sage asked. "Nothing but background information."

Resisting the urge to give a snarky reply, Tom just settled back into his seat and listened to the boys tell their story. Hopefully, a giant dragon would swoop in and kill the Chivington's and Whitlow's. At least then the story would be mildly interesting.

"Ophelia and her husband Jasper Whitlow lived in mainland Europe with their daughter, who was about our age and was going to Durmstrang. They were living in Norway," Sage explained.

"A few months back, they were killed by Grindelwald himself, mansion burnt down and everything." Hiram shook his head. "Poor family didn't know it was coming."

"Grindelwald?" Tom asked, feigning interest at the subject. Grindelwald didn't affect him in the least. He would be out of power before Tom came to his. And even if Grindelwald lived for thousands of years more, he and Tom would rule separate spheres. Grindelwald was no threat. Well, not unless he marched up to Great Britain with his supposedly terrible magic in tow.

"The Chivington's are an affluent family. They've been known to support giant political figures for generations. The Godelots, Deverill, and Loxias being few of the many." Emory frowned, "But Mrs. Chivington very vain. She only gives money to those she deems worthy. She actually insulted Grindelwald back when they were younger."

Tom interjected with his two cents. "So when he learned that Chivington's daughter and family resided Norway, he thought to get even?" It was a logical thing to do. It was something Tom would do if anyone ever insulted him. Kill the family and leave endless pain for poor old Mrs. Chivington. But then, he would probably kill Chivington too.

"Yeah." Silas said. "I never understood why he didn't go straight to her home and kill her"

"Because," he said, calmly, his annoyance tucked away, "of Dumbledore."

Dumbledore may have been a barmy nutter, but he was also shrewd in his schemes. For each minute he spent spewing rubbish about choosing good over evil, there was an hour of actions that belied his claims. Good to him was what was advantageous to him. Dumbledore was as powerful as Grindelwald, and he would defeat Grindelwald for his own personal gain. Dumbledore would kill Tom if laws allowed teachers to kill students.

"Anyway," Hiram said, eager to talk again, "today was the weekly tea party at Mrs. Chivington's. It was normal until out of nowhere a girl popped up. She literally came from nowhere. She was completely unconscious and had to be rushed to St. Mungos. Turns out she's Mrs. Chivington's granddaughter."

"And let me guess, your mum wants you to get chummy with her?" Emory mocked him.

"Surprisingly, no." Hiram said. It was a surprise indeed. Mrs. Mulciber was persistent in attempts to marry Hiram early to the most perfect girl possible. It was rather foolish. Perfection didn't exist, although, Tom was close to it. "She thought that I should make relations with her, in case."

Tom, still sitting comfortably, was furiously working out a plan in his mind. Ms. Chivington or Whitlow or whatever the girl's name was, could actually be important.

He asked, "Is she attending Hogwarts this year?"

The other four boys turned their heads towards Tom, surprise clearly etched in their face. Although Tom was no stranger to girls, he never personally pursued an interest in one, instead politely turning down or accepting dates when they came to him. But he _was_ interested in knowing about this girl. Not in order to court her, like his classmates were assuming, but for greater things.

"I believe so," Hiram said, his eyebrows scrunched up. He was trying to figure out what Tom was thinking. They all were.

"I see," Tom murmured demurely. He did see. There was a clear plan formulating in his head.

Grindelwald was a powerful wizard. Tom wanted to be the most powerful wizard Great Britain–no, _Europe_–had ever seen. Grindelwald was vulnerable, but Tom was taking measures against that. Grindelwald had wanted money to support his power, and that was the one thing Tom had not thought of.

Money.

He had no home. He was too old to live in the orphanage, which he despised too much to return to anyway, and he would be leaving Hogwarts this year. There was only so much pureblooded families were willing to give him in the beginning of his quest. He needed support from somewhere to begin with.

And then to gain power, he needed more money. To get his hands on everything he could: Dark Arts books, artifacts, weapons, to gain support in foreign nations. His supporters would reverehim. Fear him even. They would help him spread his power over all of Europe, not just England. To think, there was so much he could accomplish with the simple aid of a moronic old lady who couldn't even see the prize that lay in Grindelwald. He could control her and her granddaughter simply. It was as easy as unlocking their trusts with an effortless _alohomora_.

"And what does Miss…" he trailed off. What was her name again?

"Whitlow?" Hiram supplied helpfully.

"Yes, Whitlow." Tom should probably remember that for when they meet. "How does she look?" Might as well be on the lookout for the girl.

He wished they wouldn't look at him like that. He just asked a simple question. It's not like he turned into a chimaera.

Emory answered with a disappointing, "None of us have seen her."

Tom carefully arranged his face into an innocent disappointment, but his words held nothing more than just a nuance of annoyance. "How unfortunate."

"I've heard a bit about her," Hiram offered. "My mother told me she looked just like her mother. And often, I've heard that Mrs. Whitlow was strikingly similar to her mother, Mrs. Chivington."

"And what does Mrs. Chivington look like?"

A thousand voices supplied at once a description of Mrs. Chivington. Old. Wrinkly. Strict. Bird-nosed. Bony. Old.

It effectively wiped the smirk off of Tom's face. The picture of a young girl with a bird-like nose, bony face and wrinkles, was enough for Tom. He'd just have someone else court Miss Whitlow when she came around.

"Perhaps Brighton can take care of Miss Whitlow when he returns from France." And that was the end of the matter. Tom's word was law, after all.


	4. Ch Three: Everything and Something Else

_Disclaimer:_ _I'm just a fanfic writer. I come up with the plot of this story. Everything else belongs to J.K._

_AN: Sometimes, authors write stories knowing exactly where they're going with the story. It's planned out and everything. This story is not one of those stories, which makes it super difficult to write. One reviewer said the story was a confusing mystery. As the author, I should know what the mystery is...but I don't. This chapter was rather difficult to write, not because I had to uncover the mystery, but because I had to create the setting for the next chapter without giving anything away or rushing the plot. I hope the chapter came out ok._

* * *

_For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else._

_~Ralph Waldo Emerson_

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**III**

**Everything and Something Else**

"Hermione?" _Knock. Knock. Knock._ "Darling? Are you awake?"

Although it was unnerving at first, Hermione had gotten used to the sound of Grandmother Aurelia walking up to her chamber every morning. Grandmother _always_ asked if she was awake yet, although, Hermione was sure Grandmother was well aware through some hidden method that Hermione was indeed awake.

"Yes, Grandmother." She called out from behind her dressing screen. Although she was used to the sound of Grandmother and many of Grandmother's habits, the lavish gifts and heirlooms bestowed upon her were not as easy to assimilate into her lifestyle.

A priceless mirror she could handle. A ridiculously expensive chamber complete with a magnificent dressing screen was a little harder. A huge manor in Rye? Not even in her wildest dreams would she have expected to live in such a place – and her dreams were actually very wild.

"Are you decent?"

Hermione looked at herself using the mirrors of her vanity, which was situated right behind her dressing screen. Her hair was a mess, frizzy from a rough night's sleep and the bow of her dress had yet to be tied.

"Uh" was all she could say.

Her chamber doors swung open with ease as her grandmother floated into the room like a queen, or at least Hermione assumed she floated in. She really couldn't see, being behind a screen and all.

After getting over the initial hysterics both women had while at St. Mungo's, Hermione had learned a great deal about Grandmother. She wasn't an old loony (Hermione would never admit that she _ever_ thought that). In fact, she was just an old woman who had lost everything close to her. It was quite unfortunate.

Her husband, Jarvis Chivington, also Hermione's grandfather, had died of Scrofungulus. Her daughter, Ophelia Whitlow, also Hermione's mother, had married Jasper Whitlow, and subsequently moved away to Norway where the entire family was destroyed by Grindelwald.

Somehow, she, Hermione, had survived. Odd really.

"Oh, Hermione," Grandmother sighed in exasperation. Hermione heard the old woman's footsteps nearing and then coming around the screen. Hermione had the decency to blush in embarrassment. Since when was she unable to dress herself? She was a grown woman. Grandmother said she was seventeen. She was a legal adult. She could get herself fire whiskey and drown in it if she wanted to.

Grandmother pulled her out of her thoughts and back to the problem at hand. "This would all be so much easier if you just allowed the house elves to assist you."

When Hermione first refused to accept assistance from the house elves, Grandmother laughed, thinking it was a joke. All respectable pureblood families used elves. It's not as if Grandmother abused them! Oh the thought of that!

Despite Grandmother's obstinate insisting that the house elves were safe, Hermione had the strangest urge to give all of Grandmother's elves clothing. Clothing sets house elves free, and free house elves are happy house elves. Yet, she resisted. Of course, setting free all of Grandmother's elves would be poor reparation for everything she gave Hermione. Plus, she was family. Familial bonds considered, setting free Grandmother's elves would be like being entrusted with mother's credit card and maxing it out.

Wait. What in Merlin's name was a credit card?

"Grandmother?" Grandmother would know. She was old and probably full of all sorts of random wisdom.

"Yes?"

"What is a credit card?"

Grandmother's face contorted to show her indescribable confusion, then her concern. "Hermione, dear, perhaps you should sit down for a bit." She looked at Hermione, her face transforming into the exasperation she was wearing before. "And please dress properly. My seamstress is coming today for your fitting."

Hermione looked down, remembering once again that she failed at looking like a proper lady. She had to hold back a groan; otherwise, Grandmother would scold her (once again) for being absolutely crude.

Grandmother approached Hermione and gracefully tied the bow of Hermione's dress. Hermione looked up, confused. Did Grandmother just say fitting?

"Fitting?" What fitting? Fitting for what?

"Sit down." Grandmother gestured to the stool of Hermione's vanity. Hermione sat, sighing as she saw Grandmother reach for her brush.

Grandmother had taken to redoing Hermione's hair every day. Hermione couldn't figure out if her hair was really _that_ ugly or if Grandmother just liked using her as a doll. When doing her granddaughter's hair, Grandmother was always very gentle, always appearing sad.

"What fitting?" Hermione winced as Grandmother tried to untangle a rather nasty knot.

"We've been putting off the fitting on your school robes." Hermione internally relaxed. She was actually looking forward to getting fitted for new school robes. "I've also had Signorina Lombardo create a gown for you. You just have to be fitted before Lavinia's ball tonight." Grandmother pulled on Hermione's hair once again. "For goodness sake, Hermione! Your hair's like a nest! I'll have to find a squib willing to assist you in the mornings."

Grandmother, now holding a black satin ribbon, must have seen the look gracing Hermione's visage. She frowned. "_What_ is _wrong_ with your face?"

Hermione was not expecting that. Her eyes flashed to the mirror. Her face was quite alright. She didn't feel as if she was a gorgeous model type, but she was by no means ugly. Plus, Grandmother had to take into consideration that Hermione was barely awake.

When Grandmother continued to stare at Hermione in that rather rude manner, Hermione couldn't help but let out an unladylike squeak. "Grandmother! That was much uncalled for!"

"That _gawking_ expression on your face was much uncalled for!" Sharp pain shot through Hermione's scalp as Grandmother tied the ribbon a little too tightly, probably as a punishment for the gawking expression that had offended Grandmother.

"Sorry Grandmother." Hermione bowed her head in shame. She really was sorry. Sometimes, she swore she could see a mildly disappointed expression gracing Grandmother's face. It was as it Hermione just wasn't what Grandmother expected. Or rather, Hermione wasn't expecting so much pomp at Grandmother's home. Hermione wasn't as accepting of Grandmother's life as Grandmother was of Hermione's lifestyle.

Hermione sighed. This was just another challenge that Hermione had to overcome in her life.

"I was a tad surprised, Grandmother. I apologize for being rude." Grandmother nodded her acceptance of Hermione's apology, signalling for Hermione to continue. "I wasn't aware that I had to attend a-a ball tonight."

Dear Merlin. A ball. For some odd reason, the mere mention of a ball made Hermione cringe. She just supposed it had to do with some bad experience she had as a child. However, she couldn't remember what that bad experience was. It was probably something insignificant. Something that once overcome would not prevent her from dreaded social gatherings called balls.

"Well, I did not plan on either of us attending. However, it seems Lavinia presented a very strong argument."

Hermione raised her eyes to look into her mirror. Grandmother had finished grooming her hair. A slight frown of annoyance was visible from where Hermione was sitting.

"What did she say?"

"That you are not acquainted with society. That you are seventeen and not yet introduced to the rest of your peers."

Peers. How Hermione loathed that word. Friends was an acceptable, revered term. However, _peers_ was a word that one used to give the illusion of friendship. Hermione's peers would probably laugh at her. She was still unacquainted with society as Grandmother had pointed out. She would probably botch up the names of a few very important people, trip over everyone's feet while dancing and end up flooding the ballroom with her inevitable tears.

Oh, she would much rather stay at home and read or something. Nevertheless, Grandmother would not allow it.

Hermione stood up, sighing as she did so. Maybe she could convince Signorina Lombardo to make her gown periwinkle. It might make the whole ordeal more bearable. Maybe.

She walked downstairs with Grandmother, praying fervently that her gown wasn't comprised of something ridiculous like feathers.

...

"Are we all on the same page now?" Tom asked, his patience drawing thin.

It had been difficult to find a moment of peace for his circle of six to gather and plan. The Rosier's was bustling today because of Druella's coming-of-age ball event. Caterers, servants, and decorators were rushing about attempting to finish a last minute cake or centrepiece.

When he wasn't smiling politely and forced to help, he was being unmercifully coddled by Mrs. Rosier. Thankfully, the irritating woman was distracted by the stress-induced river gushing out of Druella's eyes.

While he should have been worried or at least pretending to be worried over Druella's state, at present there were more pressing matters to be discussed with his fellow Slytherins.

"Shouldn't someone with more qualifications be doing this?" Brighton, recently returned from vacation, looked nervous almost to the point of being ill.

"While you were away, we unanimously decided that you had the most qualifications." Tom answered. It was _his_ decision after all. Brighton shouldn't doubt _his_ decision. "Use some of those techniques you learned while in France to woo Miss Whitlow."

"How will I know which girl she is?" Brighton pressed. "Sage himself said over a hundred different families were invited."

"Easy, Brighton, old chum," Emory came around, clapping Brighton on the back. "Look for the girl with the abnormally large nose."

"I thought none of you have seen her."

"Relax, Brighton." Tom sighed. If he had known Brighton would have been this annoying, he would have had someone else do this. "You're not marrying the girl!" He stopped and threw a withering look that said _'Yes, I heard that last comment'_ at Silas. "Just win her over for the time being." He raised an eyebrow at Brighton. "You can do that, can't you?"

"Yes." It was a dejected sigh of a yes, but it was a yes nonetheless, and it satisfied Tom for the present moment.

On to the next subject of business: "Sage?"

"The Book of Magick," he took a rather long moment to whisk out his notes on the matter, "is also known as the Book of Thoth. Last known owner: Prince Neferkaptah who apparently went through great lengths to hide the _monstrosity_, as he called it. There are six keys to open various boxes and another key to open the book itself. The keys were scattered long ago throughout Egypt. For one to obtain said book, it may take decades."

"I don't plan on scouring the desert for the rest of my life," Hiram frowned. "Isn't there some spell we could use?"

"The wards on it must be centuries old," Tom could feel himself involuntarily frowning as he explained. Hiram had a valid point. He really didn't want to spend years searching for keys when there were greater matters he could attend to.

"A simple _accio_ won't do," he continued. After all, there were seven keys hidden throughout all of Egypt. They could be scattered throughout the entire world by now. Someone took special precautions to keep the book hidden, either for selfish purposes or because the book was full of dangerous magic. Or rather, dark magic. It wasn't dangerous if someone with the right kind of power controlled it.

"I suppose not."

"What are you boys discussing?"

Five heads whipped around anxiously, assuming Mrs. Rosier had heard a great deal of their conversation. Tom was not anxious at all. While it would be rather unfortunate for Mrs. Rosier if she had heard their conversation, Tom had no qualms about using _obliviate_ on her despite her status as Sage's mother.

However, he really didn't have to use magic. No real magic anyway. Thankfully, Tom's trademark smile was like its own magic. It worked wonders on women, both young and old, making him seem like the perfect, charming, man he was.

"Nothing of any importance, Mrs. Rosier." Her face softened considerably. "We thought we'd just spend a few moments relaxing, if we weren't needed elsewhere."

"How convenient!" Tom really didn't like that smile on her face. It was more of a _oh-thank-goodness-I-don't-have-to-do-this-now_ smirk than a smile. "I actually require some help, if you boys don't mind."

"Of course not, Mother," Sage smiled at his mother. Sage was a-well, to be blunt- a _momma's boy._

When Tom was younger- _very, very_ young- he yearned for a mother and father. It was a foolish dream, not because it was impossible for him to live a happy life with both a mother and father, but because it was more expedient for him to not have parents at all.

Both of his parents were weak, too weak for him. His silly mother squandered blood purity and magic for ersatz love with a cowardly muggle man. With parents such as his, he would have grown up weak as well. If Sage's devotion to his mother was any indication of what Tom's life could have been, Tom was relieved that he was parentless. Parentless, he was able to fulfil his entire potential. He could be powerful.

"I have a friend whose granddaughter, a girl about your age, has just moved from mainland Europe. The girl is attending the ball tonight, but the poor thing has no acquaintances." Tom was listening closely. Obviously, Mrs. Rosier was discussing that Whitlow girl, and a perfect opportunity may have opened for Brighton.

"I promised my friend that her granddaughter would be seen to. I just require one of you charming boys to be her escort for the night." When Mrs. Rosier was met with silence, she continued, "Her looks are incomparable."

_Incomparable_. That was probably code for ugly. No matter. Tom wasn't the one escorting her. His stared at Brighton for a moment, motioning for him to volunteer. Brighton looked reluctant but moved forward like a good boy.

"I'll escort her."

"Oh splendid," Mrs. Rosier exclaimed. Tom smirked as Mrs. Rosier gushed on about how Brighton should act and how wonderful Whitlow was. Thank Merlin he didn't have to suffer through that.

...

Hermione's fitting had taken all morning and intruded into half the afternoon. After seeing Hermione, Signorina Lombardo felt as if the previous dress she had chosen was all wrong.

Hermione had secretly rejoiced when Signorina Lombardo threw a fit over the previous dress, which was tremendously ugly. It was a bright shade of pink covered in some shiny film type material. Hermione was instantly blinded the moment Signorina Lombardo showed her and Grandmother. When her eyes recovered, the first thing Hermione saw was a giant pink bow the size of her head. The frilly warped skirt of the dress seemed almost decent compared to that giant bow nestled on the bust of the dress. Almost.

Signorina Lombardo, thankfully, was an absolutely brilliant designer, and not just a seamstress. She apparated right back to her studio and brought back a new dress that she had only begun to create. It took hours for her to finish it, and hours of Hermione being used as a human doll. However, Hermione had to admit that the new dress, when finished, was gorgeous and just her style. And best of all, there were absolutely no feathers.

Grandmother, on the other hand, was not as fond of the new dress. Hermione could see why. The new dress was, as Signorina Lombardo explained, much ahead of standard fashion. It was very daring, showing more skin than really necessary. But it would look gorgeous, and plus, Hermione loved it. She didn't think even think it was _that _inappropriate. She tried explaining that to Grandmother, but Grandmother almost had a conniption.

Eventually, Signorina Lombardo was able to convince Grandmother to allow Hermione to wear the dress. The choice was between the beautiful new dress and the nauseating pink one. There really was no choice.

After Signorina Lombardo departed, Hermione really had nothing to do. She couldn't do anything too time-consuming. There was only an hour left before she had to get ready for the ball.

She walked down the halls of manor, searching for something that called out to her. It was silly for her to expect to hear something call out her name, but she walked through the halls anyway. When nothing really caught her interest, she decided to arbitrarily choose a room.

_Eeny, meeny, miny, moe._

Hermione, walking into her chosen room, gasped. It was a library. A beautiful, beautiful library. How had she never noticed that the manor had a marvellous library? It wasn't the largest one she had seen, but it was still wonderful to see books. So many books!

Shelves lined the walls of the library from the floor to the ceiling around the entire perimeter of the room, save one large bay window situated in the middle of one wall. The butterscotch colour of the drapes matched with the plush arm chairs that were scattered around a mahogany table.

Her heart fluttered with excitement. This library was hers for another day at least. She may have lost a chance to spend her entire week at the library, but she had a few moments, and that was really all she needed. She walked quickly, anxious to read for the first time in what felt like forever. Her fingers danced over leather spines, her eyes reading as she walked through the shelves. Much to her dismay, many of the books were coated in a layer of dust. Apparently, Grandmother didn't enjoy reading as much as Hermione did.

Her mother loved to read. Hermione couldn't recall any specific reason for the conclusion. It was a thought, or an instinct, accompanied by a distant memory of being tucked in with a bedtime story every night. Her favourite was the one with...Why couldn't she remember it? She could picture the book and its glossy blue cover, but the name escaped her.

She was becoming frustrated with the entire mess. Was it really that difficult for the healers to fix her memory?

"Ouch!" She instantly cradled her hand to her chest, berating herself for not paying more attention to where she was going. Rule number one was to always pay attention to one's surroundings. She performed a thorough inspection for signs of damage. There was nothing there, but it certainly felt like something stabbed her finger. She looked up toward the books wondering if one of the books bit her.

She blinked. That was a very silly thought. Biting books? No, it seemed that none of the books in Grandmother's library were ferocious carnivores. At least none in her sight were. However, there was one book that really caught her eye. She was superficially attracted by the gold gilding on its spine. Feeling guilty for judging a book by its cover, or in her case, spine, she rushed to see the title. _The Theories and- _

"Hermione, darling?" Grandmother was calling.

It must already be time for her to get prettied up. Sighing, Hermione turned around and headed toward the hall, leaving her books behind. She wasn't looking forward to being used as a doll.

"Yes, Grandmother?"

"It seems we're on a tight schedule." Grandmother seemed annoyed. "Tighter than we were before."

"Did something unexpected come up?"

"Lavinia is sending you an escort."

There was a small silence while Hermione processed the information.

"An escort? Like, a date?"

"Yes, now come," Grandmother pulled Hermione back to her chamber. "We have a lot of work to do."

Hermione really didn't like the look on Grandmother's face.

* * *

_AN: Sorry, but this is more of a filler chapter. It wouldn't make much sense for me to skip straight to the fun part, although I'm dying to get to the fun part. Read and Review._


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